The Gun Room, packed and packing.

what kind of day off is this?
a move-makin',
get-busy,
doo-doo-what-you've-gotta-do kind of day.
today,
i begin the cordite igniting odyssey that takes aim as i pack up The Gun Room.

just look at all this survivalist/liberty-minded/hard-style
super-magnum, big-bore, zombie-resistant craziness.
i normally HATE packing, ya'll,
but this little trip down awesome street isn't so bad, really.
it's like visiting an old friend,
and instantly remembering why you've been friends as long as you have.
mostly,
it's because of the bullets:

there's also three big ol' bulky boxes of camouflage clothes!
hell,
i've got 6 different pairs of kneepads, too.
and only 2 knees!!
what am i,
an A-hole?
c'mon.
even though i'm old an' that,
i still get to play pretendian make-believe and dress-up, i guess.
and not just because i'm a tattoo maker, either.
..........right?
whatever, judgemental judies...
you secretly wish you could wear color coordinated facemasks, knee and elbow pads, too.
don't kid yourselves.
woooooord.

for the record,
movin' 1,000 round boxes of bullets gets really flippin' heavy, my ninjas.
and i'm well stocked with case after case of just-in-case crates,

full to burstin' with boattail barbarian copper-jacketed hellfiery hottness.
cyrillic silliness, yo.
secret code for righteous ragnarok reserves, probably...
damn, son,
moving is definitely gonna eat a hot, hard, hateful one.
but,
i keep bumping into special friends as i make my rounds amongst the live rounds:

for those who are curious,
those are both double-barrelled, 12 gauge, hot fire dispensing blitzkrieg blasters.
they make side x side and over/unders,
so obviously,
since i am NOT a turbo A-lord,
i have both.
variety, mutha-uckas,
because i like my life spicy.

in other news,
my home away from home homeboy,
mr. lucky,
your favorite satanic mechanic and arthur making architect,
(i call him) todd lambright,
turns 38!
last time i checked,
that adds up to my favorite lucky number!
bam-a-lama, f*tards, 
that's correct:
eleven.
that's probably important to remember.
because as  sh!tty as getting older gets,
that hard-earned, hard-style, life-lesson-learning mother-ucka of invention,
the very necessary, and very fresh, full, and flavorful accumulation of acumen,
the one and only,
wisdom,
is sharpened most keenly by age.
without the bitter, an' all that....
i think that's the most important distinction between worthy warrior poets,
and weak sauce waterbabies;
the wisdom to know the difference.
between the new hottness and just the novelty of newness,
between the long term and instant gratification,
between the keep it really realness of furious Folk Life,
and the b!tch-sap sucking sadness of suppositioning  greener grass.
you ever notice how most folks look back to where they used to be,
after misplayed, mismanaged, mismotivated move-making,
and realize the grass was actually greener wherever they just were?
yeah,
usually that's because the ground has been saturated
with their own heapin' helpin' of futile fertilizer
that sprouts better memories after bitter realities.
i'm sayin',
they're so full of sh!t,
it skews their views all askance,
and seeps into their hindsight as a lamentation of what should've,
could've,
and would've.
F-, my ninjas....
here's to wide-open-eyed oglers of What Is.
green grass or brown lawn or asphalt lot, ya'll,
where you're standing is where you're supposed to be,
provided you make your minutes matter.
i for one am grateful for the time i have been given,
and even for the wrenches in the works, as well.
spanning time, ya'll,
knees deep in hollowpoints, holsters, and hatchets.
never quiet, never soft.....